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Potts checked the tag. “Elsa. The one who freezes things.”
I’d take her word for it. Potts put her in a bag that was too big and filled the extra space with silver tissue paper.
“She’s going to open this expecting three dolls,” I said dryly.
Potts gave me an exasperated look that told me I’d pushed her too far. She was a great executive assistant, but she’d never claimed to be a toddler whisperer. And God knew I hadn’t thought to include that soft skill in the job description seeing as I’d never expected to need one.
I took the bag she thrust at me and muttered my thanks. It hung strangely light in my hand as I walked to my car and started the drive toward Griffith Park. It felt strange to be heading there in the middle of the day. Generally, if I left my office, it was to work on location or attend a meeting about work. Tuesday evenings I made a point to leave work behind and catch up with my four closest friends, but it had been a long ass time since I headed for a playground. Con’s oldest, Halley, was twenty-two now. She’d aged out of the Griffith Park Playground about thirteen years ago. It was like going back in time.
I parked next to what I recognized as Cami’s car, or at least the one she’d been driving the other night. A sleek black Lexus with a carseat in the back and a basket of toys sitting beside it. An open juice container lolled in the drink holder; the tip of the straw bitten down. I stared at it, fascinated. My kid had teeth. I mean, of course she had fucking teeth. She was three. But it was one thing to know it and another to see the evidence.
I fought a sense of disbelief as I carried the present down the path toward the park. I found Cami sitting on a bench. She turned when I was about halfway down the path, and a tentative smile crossed her face as she raised her hand in greeting. When I got to her, I sat down on the bench, feeling awkward as hell. Was I supposed to give her the bag? Should I have her vet mine and Potts’ choice of a present? And more importantly, which one of these screeching moppets was my daughter?
I perused them, my heart sinking. Was it the girl screaming her head off at the top of the slide, blocking the other kids? Or was it the girl who was trying to shove her down it? Did I want my kid to be a ninny or a bully? Easy – I wanted the bully if I had to choose between the two. But neither girl looked like either Cami or myself, so I kept searching, trying not to let the feeling of foreboding creep further across my heart.
“You look like you’re at the butcher, picking out the best cut of meat,” Cami leaned in to whisper, amusement vibrating in her hushed voice.
“That’s how I feel,” I muttered back. “Put me out of my misery. Which one is she?”
“You’ll know when you see her.” Cami leaned away again and crossed her arms, smiling fondly into the thicket of kids.
I stared in the same direction.
Then I saw her. Sitting at the top of the bridge, reaching her small hand out. Her hair wasn’t as dark as Cami’s–more golden brown than chestnut, but there was something about the way it curled out and down her small, narrow back that caught my eye. I stood up and circled out to get a better look at her. She was staring at a boy crossing the bridge, but then her eyes flickered up to glare at the kid who was trying to cross around him, and I saw them. Celery green eyes. Pale, like the color of the ocean closest to the shore, just before it submerged into froth. The eyes I remember my father having. The only thing of note he’d ever given me.
“Holy shit,” I said aloud.
Cami had stayed on the bench, but she was watching me, her hand shading her eyes and the upper part of her face. When I looked back at her, her lips curved into a small smile, like she’d read my lips. She was right. There was no mistaking which one of these kids was mine. Even if I’d been inclined to ask for a paternity test as a formality, I wouldn’t have bothered now.
There was no fucking way that wasn’t my child.
8
CAMI
Landon wasn’t the type of man who inspired descriptions likeendearing. He stood head and shoulders above the rest of the fathers, his tailored suit doing nothing to hide the width of his chest or the strength in his shoulders. He hardly ever relaxed in public, a ready watchfulness keeping his back straight and his gaze sharp. But now, as he spotted our daughter, the glittery pink gift bag hanging from his fingers, a change came over him. He mouthed something that looked likeholy shit, glanced over at me, and then just stared at her.
For the first time, I thought I could have snuck up behind him, stretched up on tiptoes to put my hands over his eyes, and stood a chance of surprising him. Kids rushed past his legs, nearly trodding across the toes of his wing-tipped shoes, but he didn’t seem to notice them. His head only turned to follow Emma’s progress through the play structure.
Suddenly, I saw his jaw tighten and he took a step forward, so intent on getting to her that he didn’t seem to notice the boy he walked right in front of, the one who bounced off his leg, scrambled up, and kept going. I stood up and started for her, too. I didn’t know what Landon had planned, but I didn’t like the look on his face. The stricken wonder that had almost made him endearing was gone, replaced by the look of ruthless determination he wore when he was working.
Emma scrambled up a ladder to the next level of the structure, nearly losing a shoe. I stopped to watch her get it back on. When I looked back at Landon, I saw he was standing a few feet down the play structure, face to face with one of the older kids. A boy, maybe eight, who initially had a smug, defiant look on his face that quickly melted into surprise and then trepidation.
Exasperated, I hurried over, looking around for any angry parents who might be on their way to defend their child. I got there just in time to hear Landon say in a dangerously pleasant voice, “I hope you remember our little talk, Junior.”
Released, Junior scrambled off, shooting a nervous look back over his shoulder.
“What wasthat?” I demanded when I reached Landon’s side.
“That kid pushed in front of her when she was waiting in line for the slide,” Landon explained. His eyes had found Emma in the upper level of the play structure, and he didn’t bother to look down at me.
I waited for the rest of the story. Then, in disbelief, I realized that there was no more. “He’s a kid, Landon,” I said, exasperated. “If it’s serious enough, you talk to his parents, and they talk to him about playground etiquette.”
Landon snorted. “If they want to talk to him themselves, they’d better beat me to him.” He took his eyes off Emma long enough to look around. “Besides, how the hell am I even supposed to know who they are?”
It was funny. Landon could spot a potential threat from a mile away. If you put two pictures in front of him and asked him to spot ten differences, he would glance down for a second, pick up a pen, and circle all of them. But he didn’t have parent-vision. Not yet. I knew immediately that this kid’s mom was probably in that knot of women sitting around the picnic tables, not bothering to keep a watchful eye on their offspring because their kids weren’t toddlers who were likely to wander off. And since this kid had pitch black hair and there were only two brunettes in the mix of snow-white blondes, I figured I had a 50-50 shot of picking the right woman on my first try.
I didn’t bother breaking this down for Landon, though. I had a feeling he’d figure it out how to do it himself soon enough, and then no one at those picnic tables would be able to relax so long as their kids were coming within an inch of Emma. Instead, I tried to persuade him to come back to the bench with me.
